


Look Only At Me

by dasedandconfuzed



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, the system has obvious flaws, you see the world in grey until you see your soulmate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasedandconfuzed/pseuds/dasedandconfuzed
Summary: Love at first sight is easy if you can actually remember whose face you saw.Viktor Nikiforov has spent the past 5 years in love with a soulmate he hasn't met. His feelings about this complicate when he sees Katsuki Yuuri ice skate.





	1. prologue

  **~*~**

 

Here is how it happens: 

 

He is 20 and skating to a packed stadium in Japan. 

 

His arms are outstretched and he lets his eyes slide over the exhilarated faces.

 

He closes his eyes, prays in that split-second that his ankle will hold, and pushes off, propelling himself into the air. 

 

The world blurs, is whipping around him too fast to hold.

 

He lands.

 

The crowd roars and Viktor Nikiforov opens his eyes to a world of color for the very first time.

 

When he stretches his arms out, he does it towards his soulmate, sitting just twenty meters beyond him. 

 

He smiles, _It won't be long_.

 

**~*~**

 

Viktor Nikiforov can feel eyes following him. Though no stranger to the feeling, he still shoves the instinct to grit his teeth down.

 

Under the fall of his bangs, he let his eyes drift, searching– _There, fanboy, right behind you_.

 

His mouth splits open into a smirk at the precise second that he turns towards the black-haired teenager standing ahead of him. "A commemorative photo?" 

 

His eyes are wide behind glasses and a light flush clings to his cheeks. He's so obviously embarrassed to have been caught starstruck over Viktor Nikiforov that Viktor feels his smile soften into something less fake.

 

It helps that the fanboy is cute. 

 

Actually, Viktor wouldn't mind taking a photo with him... "Sure!" 

 

Suddenly though, he tenses up and to Viktor's bewilderment the awe is replaced with horror. Silently, he turns and walks away. 

 

"Yuuri! Don't you want a photo with Viktor?!" the man next to him yells out.

 

_Damn. That was Katsuki Yuuri, wasn't it?_

 

Countless times, Viktor had been accused of being a narcissist but it required a true callousness to not even recognize his fellow competitors.

 

_He wasn't really a competitor though_ , Viktor thinks, remembering the second-hand embarrassment he felt when the Japanese skater first fell and how it morphed to mild horror as he–and the crowd–realized that Katsuki Yuuri was incapable of moving past it.

 

It was quite disappointing, really, Viktor had watched the Japanese champion's performance at the NHK Trophy and had been intrigued. He only needed a few of his fingers to count off how many skaters devoted more attention to true artistic expression than mindless jumping.

 

As Katsuki disappears into the crowd, Viktor realizes that the skater was probably more skilled at theatricality than his past performances showed—very few people would instantly connect the man on the ice with the boy quietly slinking away, his form almost blending with the journalists who paid him no mind.

 

It's not until Yuri jabs at his ribs that Viktor tears away from the place Katsuki once stood. 

 

_Why can't I look away from him?_

 

 

**~*~**

 

When Viktor Nikiforov is 18 his ACL tears against the stress of a quadruple flip. 

 

Like every other aspect of his life, it is too public: under the glaring lights of the World Championship Finals, halfway through what should have been a triumphant free-skate program. 

 

Viktor can barely recall the moment, the befores and afters of the event blur into one memory of pain, but the live broadcast of the competition is cut and distributed onto countless platforms. "Skating Prodigy Wipeout". The worst twenty seconds of his life laid bare.

 

A spread eagle into a quadruple flip, but he is tired, exhausted. Even as he begins the program he could feel his heart trying to escape his chest; anything to numb the pain of an overworked knee. But he needs to defend his title, and he keeps that thought even as he forces his body into the air, his knee screaming. 

 

The ice, when his side slams against it, is a balm.

 

The music plays as he lays on the ground, watching his reflection on all-fours. 

 

_You'll have to settle for third,_ his mind whispers. _Does it matter? The medals are all grey_.

 

Then the horror sinks in as he finally realizes that the music has been playing for seconds, that the aria is now swelling into what should be a leap into a flying sit-spin. 

 

He scrambles to force himself up, but his knee–on his _fucking dominant leg_ –is a useless lump of flesh.

 

The music cuts. Viktor is still on the ground. 

 

There is a split-second of deafening silence before the whispers rise up and submerge the stadium entire. This terrible chatter follows him as the paramedics cart him into the ambulance.

 

Fortunately, the video didn't capture his tears.

 

The tears come hours later, when a surgeon–devoid of that gaggle of interns who had awed over the hospital's resident celebrity–steps into his room with a folder of X-rays. 

 

"You'll need a series of operations of regain use of your knee. Typically, most people recover fine, but most people aren't Olympic-level athletes," the surgeon pauses and looks at Viktor over the X-rays. "As it is, there's a specialist in Germany that's mastered the procedure, but your case is ...special." 

 

Idly, Viktor wonders whether it was an official from the Russian government or Yakov who stressed the importance of this operation.

 

"I'm not an expert on the procedure, but if you're flown out tomorrow, best-case scenario, you can get on the ice in six months." The surgeon then looks Viktor in his eyes for the next part, "Worst-case scenario, you never regain skating functionality." 

 

Viktor has the stage training to stifle his sobs into something less pathetic and the surgeon the state of mind to step out quickly. He spends that night crying, looking at the black and white photos of his ruined knee. 

 

Six months.

 

_Six months_.

 

Six months during the off-season, with his entire left leg in a cast. If he was industrious with upper-body exercise and maintained his strict diet, he might not put on weight. But the muscles in his _fucking dominant leg_ would atrophy to nothing. He would have to hire a physical therapist just to teach his leg to accept weight on it. The entirety of the next ice skating season would be spent in physical therapy, trying to force his body to execute a spin or jump. He won't be able to compete for a year and a half.

 

...and what if the procedure failed?

 

He can feel a sting in his eyes at that thought. Unwanted, his mind produces the image of him with a cane, hunched and hobbling, watching the other skaters twirl and leap. _They'd make me a coach,_ he thinks. 

 

He'd completed the bare minimum of schooling, more interested in the ice than books, but to Viktor, the thought of coaching was an unbearable torture. Year after year, training students to complete feats he'd never do again. To smile prettily as a younger skater acknowledged a crowd, brighter than the sun from that love.

 

_They never cheer for the coach_.

 

He lets that thought linger for the long night. When the sun breaks, he calls in Yakov.

 

"I want the surgery immediately."

 

Yakov's mouth is a grim line, as if he expected nothing else.

 

 

**~*~**

 

The physical therapy is as gruesome as he imagined.

 

Only the joy in removing his cast staved off the horror of seeing his left leg, shriveled and stripped of its muscle. Yakov looks at it and grunts, "It'll need work."

 

It takes two months for Viktor to regain his old musculature. 

 

His physical therapist hovers over him every step of the way. _Eat this, drink that, rest!_ Viktor grins and bare it; before he can return as Viktor the Prodigy he would have to make due as Viktor the Broken. 

 

In his lesser moments, though, he surveys the therapist and thinks _You'll never have what I once had. Why are you keeping me from it?_

 

Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly masochistic, he'll stand in front of the barré and begin piecing together choreography. 

 

_Revival,_ he thinks, arms aloft like a bird. His costume will be the same shades of grey as a sunrise. _A story on revival_. There will be long, sweeping arm movements, and spins–so many of them, each one conveying a different transformation. 

 

And then when he gets bored of the rather grotesque imagery (his career was never _dead_ , thankyouverymuch), _Love_. The story of a man always returning to his first love. It'll be set to slow, building music, each glide conveying the sensation of comfort, security. 

 

But that's wrong. 

 

His knee almost broke under the weight of his love. Viktor would choose the poison that was an ice skating career before he'd settle into a nice, stable life.

 

_Addiction_ , he finally decides, _my piece will chart my addiction_.

 

The theme is fitting, especially in the months following his clearance to begin jumping. 

 

"You only need one quad, Viktor, you can get full points on program components!" Yakov reminds him on a near daily basis.

 

For the most part, Viktor tricks Yakov into softening, pulling back on surveilling his star pupil. To sell it, Viktor takes to working on regaining his quadruple toe loop in the daytime.

  

He practices the quadruple flip at night, when there aren't any other skaters to watch and judge–the best of them smother smirks, happy that Viktor Nikiforov's career was stalled long enough for theirs to rise; the worse offer their heartfelt sympathy.

 

Even so, in that dark rink with only moonlight as his witness, Viktor jumps and falls. It's not good for his knee, but h e can't showcase the extent of his addiction without showing the poisoned needle.

  

 

**~*~**

 

Viktor doesn't watch any of the major competitions in person that year.

 

Instead, he shares a bottle of vodka with Lilia and they watch the performances in Lilia and Yakov's luxurious apartment, cruelly tearing into each skater's technique.

 

He's slow and drunk as he watches Alexei bite into his gold medal, winking at the camera.  _That's for me_ , his mind hisses. Lilia had the foresight to confiscate his cellphone, and only that prevents Viktor from letting Alexei know how bored the audience seemed.

 

When Christophe Giacometti wins the World Championships, Viktor is in a more forgiving mood, and he sends him a smiley face. Mercifully, Christophe doesn't ask about Viktor's knee.

 

 

 **~*~**  

 

A year later, he attempts the quadruple flip in competition at the Trophée de France.

 

Viktor can feel his heart speed as he spins. Through the rush of blood he can tell he won't land it. The audience is silent when his palms slam against the ice and for a heart-wrenching split-second he thinks the entire stadium is silent–that the technicians cut his music and he'll be rushed off the ice before he can finish.

 

But the music plays and he pushes himself up and continues. 

 

The audience is deafening when he spins into his final bow.

 

 

**~*~**

 

Yakov is less than enthusiastic about the impromptu (to his knowledge) addition of the flip. Even as Viktor glided and waved before being ushered off, he could feel Yakov's glare on his back.

 

"That was stupid, Vitya," he huffs with crossed arms. His eyes are closed when the commentator announces the scores.

 

Viktor laughs and waves a plush poodle at the camera. "Third place, Yakov!"

 

The older man doesn't even wait for the camera to shut off, he just fixes a stare at the wall behind it. "You'll be bumped out by Giacometti," he says.

 

Viktor shrugs, curling himself around the oversized stuffed toy, "I would've been either way." 

 

His coach grunts and then, "No more late-night sneaking around. We'll practice that flip until its perfect."

 

 

**~*~**

 

He gets second place at the NHK Trophy. 

 

A staffer hands him a Russian flag (red, white, blue) and the medal around his neck is silver, a color several shades darker than his hair. (All this time, he thought his hair was blond but no, it's _silver_.)

 

(Sadly, his costume is black. Viktor will change this later and draw up a new routine, something to showcase pure, unconditional love.)

 

Viktor Nikiforov has not only landed his signature move in competition, but he can see color. 

 

He knows he landed that flip because of it, he feels this deep in his bones. When his brain was rewiring and his heart was singing there was no possibility of failure. How could he crash when his soul was soaring?

 

And then he floated back to the ice and the world burst into color. 

 

It was all because of his soulmate. Viktor is absolutely sure of this.

 

Standing on the podium, he smiles until it feels like his face will freeze into the position.

 

He can't remember the exact face his eyes landed on in those scant milliseconds before the jump, but he loves them already. 

 

He would've loved his soulmate if only for the color, but now Viktor has more reason to love them: his soulmate loves skating. 

 

 

 

**~*~**

 

His soulmate doesn't love him. They never step forward. Viktor keeps the colors as a consolation prize.

 

  

**~*~**

  

Christophe is the one that sends him the video. _Have you seen this?_ he writes, a link to a video under the text. _Fanboy is skating your piece!_

 

When Viktor doesn't immediately respond, Christophe sends _;)_

 

At that, Viktor shuts his phone off and falls back into the couch. 

 

He doubts there's a skater who can skate the piece the way he imagined it. "Stay Close to Me" was replete in the brilliance of his skating: dazzling spins, breathtaking step sequences, all set against a crescendoing vibrato. He wore a Prince Charming costume, too. 

 

Only Viktor knew that all of it was window dressing. "Stay Close to Me" was melancholic. The prince never reunites with his lover; everything was just a bittersweet victory in the wake of that absence.

 

He shakes his head. If he thinks about it anymore he'll be too angry to objectively watch the video and he'll certainly have nothing nice to say when he releases a tweet publicly thanking Yuuri Katsuki for the tribute.  He needs something nice to say. Without a doubt his fans are waiting for his reaction; only he can stay their pitchforks.

 

As if sensing his distress, Makkachin pads into the room and leaps onto Viktor. Momentarily cheered, Viktor draws her in and asks, "Makkachin, you'll keep me from being mean, right?"

 

She tilts her head.

 

"Of course you will!"

 

Placing her on his lap, Viktor leans against the armrest and opens the video.

 

_He's gained weight_ , Viktor thinks as the video starts. The Katsuki in the video looks closer to how Viktor remembers him–small and unassuming, nothing like a Grand Prix Finalist. 

 

And then Katsuki begins skating. 

 

Viktor watches the video the entire night.

 

** ~*~ **

 


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Viktor tries to be Yuuri's coach.

 

 

Yakov takes the hiatus badly. 

 

As badly as Viktor anticipated. He should have planned the goodbye more in advance, perhaps have brought Yuri along as a peace offering– _Here, coach, take angry kitten Yuri and I'll take piglet Yuuri. We'll have a Yuri showdown!_ –but Yakov was never amused by Viktor’s theatrics. 

 

Instead, Viktor kissed both of Yakov's cheeks and whispered, “Dasvidaniya."

 

Viktor could feel Yakov tensing next to him but he pushed that out of his mind. He would've been useless in Russia had he stayed. He should have been useless years ago, but his preternatural talent didn't age as quickly as his body. Had Yuri been older or Georgi more talented, Yakov would have let Viktor have his time.

 

Yuri is older now.

 

For added effect, “I’m sorry I can’t do as you say now.”

 

He left before the full force of Yakov’s fury gripped him. They both know it was a curtesy: Viktor wasn’t sorry to finally leave St. Petersburg.

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t take long to find the Katsuki Residence. 

 

From a cursory internet search, Viktor knew that Yuuri had been raised by proprietors of a hot spring resort in Hasetsu. All Viktor had to do was go to the information booth at the airport for a brochure of all the nearby springs. Not only was there one hot springs resort in the small town of Hasetsu, but the travel brochure included a headshot of Katsuki “Hasetsu’s Pride” Yuuri in the back.

 

The woman manning the booth even helped him book a ticket for the train connecting Fukuoka to Hasetsu and convinced a team of security guards to help move his luggage. Well, she did after Viktor took a selfie with her. 

 

A full 20 hours after bidding his coach adieu, Viktor found himself standing in front of the rather quaint Yu-topia Springs. 

 

“Hm,” he murmured, tapping his phone against his chin, “Did they name it after Yuuri?”

 

Makkachin arfed, snowflakes clinging to her fur as she pranced around in the snow. Smiling, Viktor crouched down, drawing the dog into it, and angled his phone so that the lens would capture the romanized sign. “Say sushi!” he instructed.

 

The shutter clicked and Viktor released Makkachin, walking towards the entrance.

 

Viktor winced as he unwound himself. His knee, however repaired, always protested the sudden pressure changes that came with air travel, and Viktor had hopped on three different flights in the past twenty-four hours. 

 

He turned to the entrance and did his best to recompose himself. “Stay out here,” he called to the prancing dog, “I’ll go talk to them.”

 

A blast of heated air hit him as he entered and Viktor sighed. “Hello?” a woman behind a desk called to him. She spoke in careful English, “Are you here for the hot springs?”

 

_Oh, that sounds good…_

 

Flashing a bright smile, Viktor said, “Hi~! My name is Viktor Nikiforov and I’m looking for Yuuri Katsuki!”

 

She blinked, “Yuuri Katsuki? My son? Katsuki Yuuri?”

 

Viktor examined her again—she and Yuuri shared the same bone structure and eyes. 

 

“Yes!” 

 

“And you’re Viktor Nikiforov? The figure skater?” 

 

She immediately perked when Viktor nodded. 

 

“Oh, Yuuri will be so happy! He loves you!” 

 

She moved from behind the reception desk the grab Viktor’s suitcase. Apropos of nothing, she reached up to try and pat his head, failing she mused, “Oh, you seemed shorter in the posters…” _Posters?_ “Yuuri is asleep, do you want to use the springs?” 

 

Viktor’s smile grew. 

 

~*~

 

Yuuri Katsuki was almost exactly what he expected.

 

Shy, eager-to-please, easily embarrassed. Viktor doesn’t think he’ll top his—ahem—entrance, but he wants to, if only to see the shade of red Yuuri’s entire body will turn.

 

Yuuri was also nowhere near figure skating shape. Viktor realized this when Yuuri collected him from dinner, saying that everything was moved in. The man in front of him held a flush of exertion and as he walked Viktor to his room, Viktor could nearly hear the younger man’s heart beating in protest. Viktor had a lot of stuff flown in, but anyone capable of completing his free skate shouldn’t be this exhausted.

 

As Yuuri put down the last box and collapsed onto the ground, Viktor looked around the room. It looked just like the ones in Japanese film, except in miniature. “Wow! What a classic, tiny room. Is there a sofa?” 

 

“No,” Yuuri seemed to finally stop panting, “I’m sorry it’s so small. We only had the banquet room left.” 

 

Yuuri also, inexplicably, looked anxious. Had Viktor intruded so suddenly on any other of the Grand Prix Finalists, he would’ve received a fuck you. Of course, they’d apologize later but there wouldn’t be nearly as much gratitude.

 

The room _was_ quite small. Maybe Yuuri was afraid of the cost of employing the Viktor Nikiforov.

 

“You look anxious.” Viktor winked. “You can pay the coaching fee after you achieve success! I’ll bill you later.”

 

“Th-thank you.”

 

Yuuri still didn’t push himself off the ground and his expression was still a little too wide-eyed. It was adorable. Viktor would have to break Yuuri out of his idol-worship, but he wanted to enjoy it while he could.

 

Kneeling down, Viktor let his pitch lower, “Yuri, tell me everything about you. What kind of rink do you skate at?” He tilted Yuuri’s chin up and his free hand trailed down the man’s arm. _…hm. Not that much muscle mass there._ “What’s in the city? Do you have a soulmate?” 

 

Yuuri gasped as Viktor’s hand finally reached Yuuri’s. He could see himself reflected in Yuuri’s reflection, and he looked exactly as he imagined he would. 

 

“Before we start practicing, let’s build some trust in our relationship.”  

 

Before Viktor registered it, Yuuri was pressed against the hallway wall. 

 

“What? Why are you running away?”

 

“Uh, no reason.”

 

~*~

 

In the next few days, Viktor talked with every person Yuuri grew up with. He didn’t even need to ask them for information—one by one, they each stepped forward and volunteered all the important details: how long they’ve known Yuuri; how important Yuuri was to them; how they’d kill Viktor if he were here to screw with Yuuri. He’d even been able to coax Yuuri’s best friend out onto the ice with him and had been pleasantly surprised.

 

It was all very distressing. Yakov may have been gruff and stoic, but he knew every aspect of his skaters’ lives. Viktor’s not certain he knows Yuuri better than he knows Yuuri’s friends and family.

 

It was also boring. 

 

Viktor knew he’d have to slim Yuuri down first, knew that this part would involve long runs and tedious core training, but he’d anticipated _at least_ already knowing if Yuuri could see in color or not by now. Everyone who could would slip up in tiny ways—“The sky is so blue today,” “Hand me the dish. The red one,”—but Yuuri couldn’t even answer “Good morning” with anything longer than “Yes”. 

 

At first, Viktor assumed Yuuri was shy about his English, but he had trained in America for years. He then assumed his Russian accent would be too noticeable for someone who had mastered English so well, but everyone else understood Viktor perfectly, they’d even started teaching him small Japanese phrases that Viktor would add to his one-sided conversations to Yuuri.

 

 _He didn’t even compliment me on my Japanese…_ Viktor relished the memory of Yuuri leaping into the air mid-run when he practiced the Japanese phrase he’d been most keen on learning, “ _Will you sleep with me, tonight?”_

 

Currently, Yuuri was relaying the specifics of Minako’s weight-loss regime while jumping. Halfway through he segued into a monologue about his beautiful teacher’s illustrious dance career and her unwavering support. Though Viktor would rather hear Yuuri talk about himself, he was pleased enough about Yuuri stringing whole sentences around him that he let him finish the thought. 

 

 _I should ask him more questions,_ Viktor decided. There was one thing he was curious about…

 

“Is Minako your soulmate?”

 

The steady clunk of Yuuri’s cleats stopped as he gasped out, “What?! No way!”

 

Viktor smiled at Yuuri’s expression. “You can’t choose,” he explained, “and it’s not so unusual to have a large age gap. You’d be lucky, she doesn’t look her age.”

 

Yuuri’s expression was horrified. It wasn’t normal to discuss something as personal as the soul bond to strangers, but Viktor _was_ his coach.

 

“She’s not—She h—” 

 

“Have you met yours yet?” 

 

Yuuri’s eyes grow round, “I don’t—”

 

That answered that. People who knew their soulmates usually advertised it to the world.

 

“Have you had lovers then?” 

 

Yuuri’s blush said it all. “N-no comment.”

 

“Let’s talk about me. My first lover was—”

 

“Stop!”

 

Yuuri’s tone was so final that Viktor sighed. At this rate, Yuuri would never accept him as a coach. 

 

 _…and I’ll never collect my payment_. 

 

The silence grew long and Viktor let it. It was cruel, but he wanted to communicate how frustrated he was with Yuuri. 

 

Suddenly, Makkachin barked and both men followed the noise. 

 

“Yuuri, what’s the castle there.”

 

“Hasetsu Castle.” To his surprise, Yuuri’s entire demeanor slipped into that of an over-eager tour guide. “Inside is ‘ninja house.’”

 

Viktor played along. “Really? Ninjas?!”

 

~*~

 

In his defense, Viktor wanted a photo in front of Hasetsu Castle because he’d never seen a building like it before. He had Yuuri take the photo since the playacting was perhaps the closest they’ve been to holding a normal conversation. 

 

He posted the photo on Instagram because he’d been holding off. Viktor enjoyed being just the weird but handsome foreigner; he also had a little too much fun letting the world wonder if _the_ Viktor Nikiforov had disappeared into a coaching gig in Japan. 

 

But it had been a week since he last posted, his fans were overdue.

 

Yuuri would probably do well with all the secondhand attention. His career hadn’t fared well when no one was watching; Viktor would make sure as many eyeballs as possible would be glued on the making of Yuuri 2.0. 

 

Posting the selfie of him and Makkachin in front of the Yu-topia sign was overkill, but it was also common curtesy to let the reporters know where to park their vans.

 

~*~

 

Overnight, Hasetsu seemed to fill to capacity.

 

It was gratuitous and Viktor was mildly annoyed that he could no longer skate or bathe in peace, but the heat would die down when it was confirmed that no, Viktor Nikiforov didn’t drag himself to Japan because he’d found his soulmate  (however interesting that story may have been) and that yes, Viktor Nikiforov found Yuuri Katsuki worth coaching. Surprisingly, the reporters had the sense of mind to call Yuuri a “Late Bloomer” instead of “The Skater with the Glass Heart”. Though Viktor didn’t have to peruse skate forums that long to know Yuuri was—most likely—more derided as "Little Miss Piggy" now than during the Grand Prix failure. 

 

Yuuri was handling his new social media presence rather well in that he had no idea the full extent of it. With reporters circling Yu-topia and the rink, he had no choice but to devote more time to Minako’s hellish weight-loss scheme.

 

It truly was hellish. Each day, Viktor could see Yuuri’s waistline slimming and his limbs elongating with the sinew of muscle.

 

If he ever wondered how Yuuri was so adept at skating’s artistic elements, it was answered when—finally annoyed with having to pass through an encampment to get to the rink—Viktor tagged along to one of Yuuri’s hours-long ballet sessions.

 

“He was a dancer before he was a skater,” Minako explained, she paused as Yuuri leapt into a beautiful spin. “He was actually my most talented student.”

 

Viktor didn’t doubt that.

 

“How’d he become a figure skater?”

 

She sighed, “He’d always been more… removed from kids his age. Being the best ballerina didn’t win him more friends. Do you remember Saito Takeshi?”

 

“Former world champion,” Viktor recited, “the first one from Japan.”

 

The dancer smiled, “He lives an hour away. Everyone from here grew up wanting to be the next Japanese World Champion, especially the boys. Figure skating really is just ballet on ice—I told Yuuri he should try it out.”

 

Viktor smiled, “And then he fell in love with it.”

 

Minako threw him a sly smile, “He fell in love, all right.”

 

Seeing their conversation, Yuuri paused from his pliés to look over at his two teachers. Viktor smiled back; Yuuri flushed red.

 

Minako’s smile turned impish and she spoke louder, “Y’know, I have a lot of old photos lying around”—Yuuri was deliberately not looking at them—“I have to sort through them, they got jumbled around, but if you’re not too busy…”

 

“IT’S TIME FOR OUR MID-AFTERNOON RUN!” 

 

~*~

 

Viktor’s stunt works better than he ever anticipated. Like a dream, Yuri Plisetsky arrives.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested in the random musings I have, hit me up on [Tumblr](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com/). I'm gonna try and post all my notes on writing this chapter since it'd be too gratuitous to put here.


	3. Chapter Two

 

~*~

 

_What is love?_  

Viktor closed his eyes, trying to resurrect the feeling. Slowly, he let his eyes drift open, and moved. 

The gleam in his mother’s eyes when she held his father’s hand.

His arms unwound behind him, like the wings of an angel.

The fond exasperation that would consume Yakov’s face whenever Lilia would breeze back into his life. 

His hands rose up in a prayer.

Blue poppies, delicate to the eye, right there, every—

Viktor skidded to a halt.

He’d glimpsed love, recognized it, however painful. 

“You look like you’re doing great, Viktor!”

Viktor turned, smiling at the bright blond head of Yuri Plisetsky.

“Yuri, you’re here? I’m surprised Yakov let you come. What do you want?” The expression on Yuri’s face was hilarious. His chin wobbled violently, like a child that was denied a toy or a promised treat.

_Ah. A promise._

_“_ Judging from that look, I’m guessing I forgot some promise I made.” 

As Viktor said it, the cogs of his memory churned into use. _Did I promise to teach him my flip? How to be nice to a fan? Decent first date ideas for Beka?_

Yakov was in the habit of keeping his star pupils close. To foster rivalry or camaraderie; the rationale changed for each of his skaters. Viktor, Russia’s aging superstar, was always kept in direct view of Yuri, his presumed heir. Had Viktor been a lesser skater, he would have crumbled into the despair of seeing his moves copied by a younger, healthier skater. Instead, seeing something of himself in Yuri’s ever-present yearning, he adopted a mentor relationship to the young boy, pushing him harder with friendly smiles and half-hearted promises. 

In other words—there were many, many things that Viktor had promised Yuri.

As Yuri recited the two year old memory of winning a Viktor-Nikiforov-Program, Viktor laughed. “Sorry, sorry. I totally forgot. But you knew I was the forgetful type, right?” 

Yuri shook with rage. “Yeah, I’m painfully aware of that”— _Has he been cataloging all my promises?—_ “But a promise is a promise. You’ll choreograph my new program, Viktor!”

Then, in an even more dramatic turn, “”Let’s go back to Russia!”

It was as if the air vacated the room. Yuuri turned to him with such a distraught, resigned look. 

“Okay, I’ve decided!” Both skaters snapped to attention as Viktor smiled coolly, “Tomorrow I’ll choreograph a program for both of you to the same music I’m using in my short program.” 

The two exploded in protest and Viktor laughed.

In the wake of the Grand Prix, a few of his rinkmates had captured a hilarious video of the Russian Junior Champion screaming mid-practice (specifically, mid-jump) about being the “best Yuri”. At first, Viktor thought it was one clever, albeit odd, self-motivational scheme, until Mila had tittered about the seemingly shy Japanese Champion challenging the figure-skating élite to a dance battle. An overeager Yuri had apparently been the first to lose against an uninhibited Yuuri Katsuki. 

Viktor wanted to see it himself. 

It was almost as though fate was conspiring to grant that wish.

The two were silent as Viktor explained the terms of the competition. Predictably, Yuri pounced on the opportunity, “Viktor will do whatever the winner says! If those are the terms I’m in!”

_He’ll bring me back to Russia,_ Viktor supplied, but his eyes grew round at the heightened stakes. 

“Great! I love that kind of thing!”

 

~*~

 

When the soft sounds of Yurio’s—Viktor had to buy Mari a gift for that name—snoring filled the room, Viktor left to find his disappeared student.

Yuuri’s sister had written down the Japanese characters with the romanization underneath, but all Viktor had to do was show the address to any late-night wanderer. “Oh! Minako-dono!” a couple had exclaimed before gleefully showed Viktor the way.

Stepping into her store, Viktor offered the empty bar a smile.

“Viktor!” Minako called out from behind the bar, she was dressed in a severe suit, and seemed subdued. “Here for a drink?”

Even for a weekday, a bar shouldn’t be this empty.

“Sure.” 

Viktor removed his gloves and Minako poured half a glass of liquor, leaving the jug within arm’s reach. 

“You know,” she teased, “if you want a drink, just tell me, I’ll show you the busier places.” 

Viktor took a sip. “I’m trying to find Yuuri. Mari said he was at your place.” 

“Huh, Yuuri? He’s not here.” Minako leaned against the counter, her voice turning serious, “by my place she meant my ballet studio, whenever Yuuri gets anxious, he always wants to practice.” 

Viktor committed that to memory. 

“I usually go along with him,” Minako stood back up, “Ice Castle lets him skate any time if its not booked already.”

“Yuri was able to grow because he had a place where he could practice alone whenever he gets anxious.” Minako looked at him carefully before admitting, “he’s no genius, but he was gifted with more free time than anyone else to practice.”

Viktor finished his drink and promised to take her up on her barhopping offer. There was surely more she could tell him about Yuuri, but something about Minako put Viktor on edge.

_Minako is you, decades into the future_ , Viktor thought, stepping into the grimy hallway, feet automatically guiding him to Ice Castle. 

Viktor remembered seeing Minako’s polished ebony statuette, an exact replica of Lilia’s own _Benois._ Emboldened, he had slid the cabinet underneath it open, and unearthed dozens of photographs and prizes—the accoutrements of a dazzling stage career, carefully hidden away.

His apartment in St. Petersburg had a separate room for all his medals and trophies. It was climate-controlled and expanded to accommodate all of his perfectly preserved costumes. 

_All of it should be arriving soon_ , he paled at the thought of all the boxes of fragile material. The Katsukis were gracious, but not enough to allow him the extravagance of trophy upkeep. _I’ll need storage space…_

He eventually found Yuuri in Ice Castle, skating lazy circles into the ice. His friends had ushered Viktor into a booth before Yuuri could notice his small audience. 

Viktor was glad the skater was too near-sighted to take notice of any of them. He wore a serene expression, like he was greeting an old friend, as he kept gliding the length of the rink.

“He’s always come here to practice by himself,” Takeshi explained. 

Yuuko was watching Yuuri with a soft smile, “It always made me think he really loved skating. He didn’t even play with his friends.”

“Well, he was never very good at making them,” Takeshi said. His bluntness reminded Viktor of Yakov. “Skating aside, he’s not good at putting himself out there,” Takeshi’s voice went still, “I don’t want this to be the end for him.”

“Me, neither,” Yuuko then added, “he actually really hates losing.” 

Her husband nodded.

Yuuko’s eyes were glued to Yuuri, and her voice was so soft, but still Viktor heard, “I hope Viktor will bring out a side of Yuuri-kun that we’ve never seen before.”

An image of Yuuri, skating so confidently, sexily, materialized before Viktor’s eyes.

“A spell,” he murmured, “to turn the little piggy into a prince…” 

 

~*~

 

Viktor hurried back to the hot springs. Yakov had always micromanaged his skaters’ lives, dictating sleeping time, eating time, and diets. Yuri, for all his teenage rebellion, never questioned the regimented lifestyle that Yakov imposed on the skaters. (Though the sight of the katsudon bowl had Yuri whispering to Viktor to never mention his dietary lapse to the others.) Viktor took extra glee in sliding his door open.

“Oy, _Yurio!”_

The blond pointedly kept his eyes shut.

Viktor stepped into his room. 

“ _Yu~ri~oh~!_ ”

The teenager rolled so that he was facing the wall.

“I know you’re awake,” Viktor moved until he was standing next to the bed, learning forward until he was blocking out all of the light from outside. “Do you know…? cat cafes are very popular in Japan."

Yuri’s form twitched. 

“There’s even–” Viktor paused, “a cat island nearby.” 

Yuri turned, lifted one eye open. “You lie,” he hissed.

Viktor thanked whichever government official decided that the cat-loving tendencies of the Japanese people deserved tourism brochures.

“Do me a favor and I’ll take you there after the competition.” 

Yuri cracked both eyes open. “Another promise? God knows how much you think of those…”

Had Viktor’s promises really meant that much to Yuri?

He persisted, “I’ll tell Yuuri’s family about it. They’ll never let me not keep it.”

Yuri flopped in the bedroll, dragging an arm over his head–probably to hide his pleased smile. “What do you want?” he whispered.

“I want your photos of the Grand Prix Banquet.”

The blond coughed suddenly, shooting up and grabbing for his phone. Unable to find it, he turned suspicious eyes towards… a smiling Viktor, lobbing the phone up and down in his hand. “The fuck?” he windmilled towards Viktor, “that’s mine you asshole!”

“Quiet, quiet!” Viktor teased, “Now, what’s the password?”

Yuri’s hands were wrapped around Viktor’s arm. For someone hailed as a prodigy, he was rather oblivious to the limitations of age–Viktor easily had the muscle mass and height to keep it away from him.

“Why do you even?”

“Who knew the one time I skip the banquet I miss the ‘Best Banquet Ever!’” Viktor quoted Christophe, who had vaguely detailed Yuuri Katsuki’s dance battles and drunken claim that he wanted Viktor Nikiforov to coach him, “I want to catch up on the gossip.” 

“What makes you think I have photos?” Yuri snapped back.

Viktor smiled, “Mila told me you wanted her to take photos of you destroying ‘That Wimp-Ass Yuuri.’”

“And that’s all you want to see?” Yuri asked in an oddly quiet voice, “That the coward can’t dance?”

“Indulge me.”

  

~*~

 

**Nikolai Akulov**

**Re: [Skating Commission] They’re finished!**

**To: Viktor Nikiforov CC: Yakov Feldman**

 

**Hello,**

**I’ve completed two arrangements of the song and have attached them below. Tell me if you need any changes with any of them.**

**Also, thank you again for taking a chance on me! I've always been astounded by the art created in the marriage of your sublime skating and the work of Russia's best musicians. I'm so happy to see what you do with this!**

**Nikolai**

 

~*~

  

Viktor re-opened the old email and downloaded the second file: _eros_. The forgotten strings of the piece filled his head, and he could begin to see a piece forming—a jaunty smirk, a lingering touch, a quick succumbing. 

Yuri’s photos—33 in total, the boy really was obsessed with his older counterpart—had cleared up any doubts Viktor had towards Christophe’s retelling of the GPF Banquet. If Yuuri could summon up even half of that raw sensuality, then he would finish Onsen on Ice closer to Grand Prix gold than Viktor would have estimated a week ago.

And Yuri…

_“Another promise? God knows how much you think of those…”_

Maybe Viktor meant more to him than Yuri ever let on? He would get what he’d been angling for—the routine Viktor started composing since last year’s Grand Prix Final.

 

~*~

  

“If I win, Viktor, you’re coming back to Russia. And you’ll be my coach! That’s what I want.” 

Yuri was every bit as predictable as Viktor anticipated.  

“Sure.”

Viktor turned to Yuuri, who was staring right back at him, dumbfounded.

“Yuri, what about you? What would you like to do if you win?” 

The entire room stilled as Yuuri summoned up the courage to look Viktor in the eye.  “I want to eat pork cutlet bowls with you, Viktor,” he whispered. 

Viktor released the breath he didn’t know he was holding and his stomach was twisted into knots. 

Yuuri tensed, his hands were balled into fists, and his eyes were glinting madly. “I want to keep on winning and keep on eating pork cutlet bowls! So I’ll skate to eros! I’ll give it all the eros I’ve got!”

No wonder Yuuri inspired such belief in his friends.  

Viktor’s face was stretched so widely into a smile that his cheeks ached with it, but he didn’t care. He’d never been so surprised before. “Great! That’s exactly what I like!”

  

~*~

  

“I get it now!” Yuuri slammed his palm against the table, a manic expression on his face, “ _Katsudon!_ That’s what _eros_ is to me!”

Viktor swore he could hear a guest in the next room breathe; the dining room was eerily silent in the wake of Yuuri’s outburst. 

Realizing he said that out loud, Yuuri back-pedaled, “Sorry, I’m not~”

He had been struggling with the _eros_ concept, but despite of his youthful demeanor, Yuuri was a cute, 23-year-old man—who’d been to an American university to boot. If any of those films were true, then _eros_ shouldn’t be that difficult to envision. 

_Just be supportive,_ Viktor thought _._ It was probably easier for Yuuri to think with his stomach than to bare himself so sexually to strangers. Especially strangers with videocameras.

“Okay,” he forced a grin, “let’s go with that. It’s nice and unique.”

Yuri smirked against the wood, “Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking of?”

Yuuri rapidly glanced at Viktor and Yuri. Beet red, he muttered about a night-time run and dashed outside. Makkachin, inordinately fond of a man she met three weeks ago, ran after him.

Alone with Yuri, Viktor said, “Well, he’s going to have an interesting program.”

The blond fixed Viktor with a dead stare, “You know, _I_ could have skated _eros_ better.”

“You think I’d let the fifteen year old do a sexy dance for skating officials?” Viktor squinted at Yuri. Unfortunately, some people _would_ get off on the younger boy doing such a thing, besides… “Otabek would slaughter me.”

Viktor would bet Yuri’s ears were beat red.

“Beka and I will _both_ beat the piggy,” Yuri declared.

Viktor sighed. The bond between Yuri and the Kazakh Hero was strong, regardless of the distance their careers forced them through. More than once, Viktor had caught glimpses of the two in the rare times they’d skated in the same venues—critiquing each other’s routine on the rink, chatting over lunch. At the World Championship that year, Yuri had cheered loudest for Otabek, had even kissed him on the cheek before the senior skater performed his long program.

Viktor was absolutely certain Otabek’s upset third place finish was  because of Yuri’s kiss. 

Viktor stared at his half-eaten meal, his appetite vanishing. He had spent so long wrapped up in his career that he neglected finding his soulmate, unwavering in the belief that they’d find him first or that they were waiting for Viktor’s fast-paced skating career to end. But even the ever-increasing rumors of retirement hadn't enticed anyone forward. And then—

The smack of Yuri’s palm against the table drew Viktor out of his thoughts.

“Oy! I was speaking to you!” 

Viktor lifted an eyebrow. The younger boy cleared his throat, oddly quiet, “You know he’s not really thinking about katsudon, right?”

_Of course he’s not,_ but Viktor smiled placidly, “ _Oh?_ How are you so sure?”

Yuri snorted, the sound muffled by the wood he couldn’t seem to peel himself off of. “He’s thinking of you,” his smile widened against the wood, as though he was savoring a thought. It was weirdly cute—Viktor snapped a photo for Instagram. 

Growling, Yuri pushed onward, “I saw his room, he has a couple of your photos framed on his desk. I think he had posters of you everywhere, too.” 

“Is that so?” Viktor kept his smile benign. He assumed Yuuri had a couple posters after Christophe had gleefully recapped how the normally shy skater had gone around the banquet alternatively dancing with the other skaters and drunkenly proclaiming his disappointment that Viktor wasn’t there. 

“I tell you your student is a crazy fan who’s in love with you and you think that’s cute?” Yuri finally picked himself up, only to keel over backwards. He muttered to the ceiling, “I thought you were his _coach._ ”

“I am,” Viktor replied back easily. “Don’t question my methods. 

“Someone has to. He can barely look you in the eye. You’ve been here how long?” 

 

 ~*~

 

Yuri’s words stayed with Viktor through the rest of the meal. When the teenager stalked into his converted closet for sleep, Viktor called out he was going drinking. Yuri was smart enough to not question it. 

Viktor had been meaning to talk with Minako for a while. Though she quickly volunteered information about her protégé, Viktor presumed she had more thoughts about her protégé’s coach. Viktor didn’t think she’d be brutally honest about him within Yuuri’s hearing range. 

Getting her to talk was easy—all Viktor had to do was show up at her snack bar with a case of alcohol. He _did_ have an open drinking invitation. Unfortunately, she drank like a Russian.

“Aww~! What a nice thing to say!” 

They were in their third bar of the night and Viktor had spent the last few months in competitive shape. He was far drunker than he anticipated being.

Minako leaned closely into Viktor, looking up at him with a teasing smile. Her form seemed to blur at the edges, till all that Viktor registered were her bright, grey eyes. 

Viktor felt his heart still. Through the haze of alcohol and memory, he could see someone else lingering beside her. _That’s what it was…_

She smirked and then clambered across the countertop, grabbing an empty bottle of alcohol.

The spell was broken.

Pouring him a round, Minako picked up her cup and sang, “Zazdarovje!”

Viktor laughed, “За здоровье!”

“I said that!”

They both drank.

Slamming her cup onto the counter, she looked at Viktor expectantly. Was he really that transparent?

Sighing, he leant his elbow on the counter and rested his chin against it. “What do you think?” he asked, “of me and Yuuri?” 

She settled back to her seat and exaggerated looking him over. Viktor was too similar to Minako to even presume she hadn’t been preparing what to say to him or that she was even half as drunk as she let on. 

Noticing the hooded cast of Viktor’s gaze, Minako let the act fall, her gaze sharp as she responded, “You can’t expect Yuuri to talk to you if you don’t talk to him.”

“I _do_ talk to him,” Viktor protested, but it came off as a drunken slur, “He knows so much about me.”

Minako reached for one of the half-empty bottles, “Yes, knowing how many people you’ve fucked and shown the door to really helps him.” She poured then handed him a cup of sake. “Yuuri’s different,” she said, “He–he likes honesty. Real honesty. You have to open your heart to him to get anything.”

Viktor sighed.

Minako gulped down the remainder of the bottle and continued, “And I think that you”—she leaned over again, poking her nail into the flesh of his arm—“came here thinking he was… I don’t know what.” The disgusted look she threw him assured Viktor that Yuuri fully disclosed the circumstances of the hot springs incident. Usually, Viktor’s harmless flirting was cute, his trademark, but Viktor usually never lived with or coached his fans. 

Seeing Viktor’s contemplative expression, Minako’s face relaxed, “Right now Yuuri’s just a boy who thinks he’s let down everyone. He thinks you’re gonna to save him. But, deep, deep down, he thinks you’ll take any excuse to leave.” She looked him straight in the eye. “ _I_ think you’ll take any excuse to leave.”

Viktor chose his words carefully, “I agreed to coach him, of course I’ll stay.”

“If he loses a meet? Flubs a jump? Loses your competition?”

Viktor felt his carefully controlled temper rise. _Of course I’ll stay._ But he didn’t want her to tell Yuuri this—already Viktor could see pieces of Yuuri emerging from the rivalry. He didn’t think they’d surface without the incentive. Instead, he sniped back, “You love that competition. You’re hanging posters with the triplets.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “I do,” she admitted, “that’s not the point—you’re not opening yourself up to Yuuri.”

Viktor blinked, “I’m not looking for a lover, just for the skater I think Yuuri can be. 

This drew a laugh from Minako and she reached for another bottle. “If you teach, you have to give away parts of yourself,” she looked at him shrewdly, “and I don’t think you’ve ever given anyone anything.”

Viktor paused. He was seeing her in duplicate once more. He was drunk—he didn’t know how much he missed her until now. 

“I have,” he said, unable to meet Minako’s gaze, “once.”

 

~*~

 

At first, Viktor doubted Yuri could win. 

Prodigy or not, Yuuri had seven years of experience on the Russian. Even if he couldn’t cleanly land a jump, his step sequences were a dream and his spins shockingly precise. Unquantifiably, Yuuri skated as though he were painting color into the air. 

It was possibly the only thing he could do better than Viktor. 

There’s not a single aspect of Yuri’s skating that he could do better than Viktor.

But then Yuri stepped out of the waterfall with the softest eyes Viktor’s ever seen on him. If Viktor’s _actual_ student didn’t spend the remainder of the week subtly panicking, Viktor would have been more visibly excited.

  

~*~ 

 

Viktor didn’t have to turn to know that Yuuri is shutting down. 

Yuri had been technically perfect, but the angel who performed in practice wasn’t the skater who performed right now. Yuuri could beat him, he wouldn’t even need a technically clean program, just confidence.

He’d heard of the black-haired skater’s vaunted glass heart (nearly every reputable sports site had located it as his Achille’s heel), but it was another to watch the color drain from his face and his entire body succumb to shakes. 

_Overcome this,_ Viktor willed, I’m _the prize._  

Viktor stepped closer, but Yuuri had yet to look up, his mind envisioning his loss, the fallout.

The distance was claustrophobic. Yuuri gasped when he realized it.

“It’s your turn,” Viktor said. Had he stepped closer, his breath would have pressed against Yuuri’s skin.

With his skates on, Yuuri stood slightly taller than Viktor, could meet his gaze straight-on, was, so rarely, looking Viktor in the eye.

There was something indefinable in Yuuri’s gaze, as if he were running through a million scenarios of what to say or do. Finally, he settled on one, stammering, “U-um, I’m… I’m going to become a super tasty katsudon, so please, look only at me.”

He then pushed forward to wrap his arms around Viktor. 

“Promise!” Yuuri whispered wetly. 

Why did Yuuri make Viktor feel so many things? All the air seemed to rush from his lungs and his blood ran soft; he wanted both to hold Yuuri and hide from him. 

Unbidden, a single thought rose from this ether: _I want to eat katsudon with you, too._

The thought surprised Viktor, so he held himself still and said, “Of course. I love katsudon.”

 

~*~

 

The reporters crowded around Viktor and Yuuri when the event is over. He could see in their eyes that they were waiting to exhaust every combination of questions concerning Onsen on Ice, until one brave soul would ask about Viktor’s career. 

Most of the media personnel were addressing their questions to Viktor; not the skater who won. Only Viktor’s arm on Yuuri kept the younger skater from wilting. 

_How can I build his confidence if everyone keeps trying to tear it down?_

That thought, really, is what brings Viktor’s blood to a boiling point. 

Not the fact that his and Yuuri’s katsudon dinner—date, really, even if Yuuri had not yet pieced together that he had asked for a date as his first place prize—was delayed with every question. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. “You handle the rest of the questions, I’ll try and call Yurio again.”

Yuuri stiffened and he gulped audibly.

Viktor waved off the reporters, to which they seemed to deflate as one, and went to Yuuko’s office.

_I should probably call Yuri_ , Viktor thinks, pulling out his cellphone. He was certain that Yuri was pissed. He was always frighteningly perceptive: Viktor’s joy at Yuuri’s triumph screamed what Viktor didn’t tell him—that he was prepared to keep his unstated promise to coach Yuuri, that he _wanted_ to keep this promise.

But then Viktor’s phone buzzed.

_Katerina_ , the screen read.

_He skates beautifully, is he yours?_

Viktor inhaled sharply through his nose and pushed down every impulse demanding he respond. Switching his phone off, he stalked back to Yuuri and the crowd, where he unceremoniously pulled Yuuri out.

“Come Yuuri,” he whispered. “We have katsudon to eat.”

And then, the weight of his phone a stone in his pocket, Viktor added, “Invite the others, I’ll cover, alright?”

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode 10 really, ~really~ helped pinpoint Viktor's exact motivations, which... I revamped the timeline I created for what happened before Viktor came to Hasetsu. So the banquet happens... but he's not there. Notes on chapter will be available [here](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com/).


End file.
